The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Of course he doesn’t,” said Eames.

  “No more than I do,” said Amelia.

  “His very looks show him innocent,” said Mrs. Roper.

  “Indeed they do,” said Miss Spruce.

  Lupex turned from one to the other as they thus defended the man whom he suspected, and shook his head at each assertion that was made. “And if he doesn’t know who does?” he asked. “Haven’t I seen it all for the last three months? Is it reasonable to suppose that a creature such as she, used to domestic comforts all her life, should have gone off in this way, at dinner-time, taking with her my property and all her jewels, and that nobody should have instigated her; nobody assisted her! Is that a story to tell to such a man as me! You may tell it to the marines!” Mr. Lupex, as he made this speech, was walking about the room, and as he finished it he threw his pocket-handkerchief with violence on to the floor. “I know what to do, Mrs. Roper,” he said. “I know what steps to take. I shall put the affair into the hands of my lawyer to-morrow morning.” Then he picked up his handkerchief and walked down into the dining-room.

  “Of course you know nothing about it?” said Eames to his friend, having run upstairs for the purpose of saying a word to him while he washed his hands.

  “What—about Maria? I don’t know where she is, if you mean that.”

  “Of course I mean that. What else should I mean? And what makes you call her Maria?”

  “It is wrong. I admit it’s wrong. The word will come out, you know.”

  “Will come out! I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow, you’ll get yourself into a mess, and all for nothing. That fellow will have you up before the police for stealing his things—”

  “But, Johnny—”

  “I know all about it. Of course you have not stolen them, and of course there was nothing to steal. But if you go on calling her Maria you’ll find that he’ll have a pull on you. Men don’t call other men’s wives names for nothing.”

  “Of course we’ve been friends,” said Cradell, who rather liked this view of the matter.

  “Yes—you have been friends! She’s diddled you out of your money, and that’s the beginning and the end of it. And now, if you go on showing off your friendship, you’ll be done out of more money. You’re making an ass of yourself. That’s the long and the short of it.”

  “And what have you made of yourself with that girl? There are worse asses than I am yet, Master Johnny.” Eames, as he had no answer ready to this counter attack, left the room and went downstairs. Cradell soon followed him, and in a few minutes they were all eating their dinner together at Mrs. Roper’s hospitable table.

  Immediately after dinner Lupex took himself away, and the conversation upstairs became general on the subject of the lady’s departure.

  “If I was him I’d never ask a question about her, but let her go,” said Amelia.

  “Yes; and then have all her bills following you, wherever you went,” said Amelia’s brother.

  “I’d sooner have her bills than herself,” said Eames.

  “My belief is, that she’s been an ill-used woman,” said Cradell. “If she had a husband that she could respect and have loved, and all that sort of thing, she would have been a charming woman.”

  “She’s every bit as bad as he is,” said Mrs. Roper.

  “I can’t agree with you, Mrs. Roper,” continued the lady’s champion. “Perhaps I ought to understand her position better than anyone here, and—”

  “Then that’s just what you ought not to do, Mr. Cradell,” said Mrs. Roper. And now the lady of the house spoke out her mind with much maternal dignity and with some feminine severity. “That’s just what a young man like you has no business to know. What’s a married woman like that to you, or you to her; or what have you to do with understanding her position? When you’ve a wife of your own, if ever you do have one, you’ll find you’ll have trouble enough then without anybody else interfering with you. Not but what I believe you’re innocent as a lamb about Mrs. Lupex; that is, as far as any harm goes. But you’ve got yourself into all this trouble by meddling, and was like enough to get yourself choked upstairs by that man. And who’s to wonder when you go on pretending to be in love with a woman in that way, and she old enough to be your mother? What would your mamma say if she saw you at it?”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Cradell.

  “It’s all very well your laughing, but I hate such folly. If I see a young man in love with a young woman, I respect him for it;” and then she looked at Johnny Eames. “I respect him for it—even though he may now and then do things as he shouldn’t. They most of ‘em does that. But to see a young man like you, Mr. Cradell, dangling after an old married woman, who doesn’t know how to behave herself; and all just because she lets him to do it—ugh!—an old broomstick with a petticoat on would do just as well! It makes me sick to see it, and that’s the truth of it. I don’t call it manly; and it ain’t manly, is it, Miss Spruce?”

  “Of course I know nothing about it,” said the lady to whom the appeal was thus made. “But a young gentleman should keep himself to himself till the time comes for him to speak out—begging your pardon all the same, Mr. Cradell.”

  “I don’t see what a married woman should want with anyone after her but her own husband,” said Amelia.

  “And perhaps not always that,” said John Eames.

  It was about an hour after this when the front-door bell was rung, and a scream from Jemima announced to them all that some critical moment had arrived. Amelia, jumping up, opened the door, and then the rustle of a woman’s dress was heard on the lower stairs. “Oh, laws, ma’am, you have given us sich a turn,” said Jemima. “We all thought you was run away.”

  “It’s Mrs. Lupex,” said Amelia. And in two minutes more that ill-used lady was in the room.

  “Well, my dears,” said she, gaily, “I hope nobody has waited dinner.”

  “No; we didn’t wait dinner,” said Mrs. Roper, very gravely.

  “And where’s my Orson? Didn’t he dine at home? Mr. Cradell, will you oblige me by taking my shawl? But perhaps you had better not. People are so censorious; ain’t they, Miss Spruce? Mr. Eames shall do it; and everybody knows that that will be quite safe. Won’t it, Miss Amelia?”

  “Quite, I should think,” said Amelia. And Mrs. Lupex knew that she was not to look for an ally in that quarter on the present occasion. Eames got up to take the shawl, and Mrs. Lupex went on.

  “And didn’t Orson dine at home? Perhaps they kept him down at the theatre. But I’ve been thinking all day what fun it would be when he thought his bird was flown.”

  “He did dine at home,” said Mrs. Roper; “and he didn’t seem to like it. There wasn’t much fun, I can assure you.”

  “Ah, wasn’t there, though? I believe that man would like to have me tied to his button-hole. I came across a few friends—lady friends, Mr. Cradell, though two of them had their husbands; so we made a party, and just went down to Hampton Court. So my gentleman has gone again, has he? That’s what I get for gadding about myself, isn’t it, Miss Spruce?”

  Mrs. Roper, as she went to bed that night, made up her mind that, whatever might be the cost and trouble of doing so, she would lose no further time in getting rid of her married guests.

  CHAPTER XLII

  Lily’s Bedside

  Lily Dale’s constitution was good, and her recovery was retarded by no relapse or lingering debility; but, nevertheless, she was forced to keep her bed for many days after the fever had left her. During all this period Dr. Crofts came every day. It was in vain that Mrs. Dale begged him not to do so; telling him in simple words that she felt herself bound not to accept from him all this continuation of his unremunerated labours now that the absolute necessity for them was over. He answered her only by little jokes, or did not answer her at all; but still he came daily, almost always at the same hour, just as the day was waning, so that he could sit for a quarter of an hour in the dusk, and then ride home to Guestwick in the dark. At
this time Bell had been admitted into her sister’s room, and she would always meet Dr. Crofts at Lily’s bedside; but she never sat with him alone, since the day on which he had offered her his love with half-articulated words, and she had declined it with words also half-articulated. She had seen him alone since that, on the stairs, or standing in the hall, but she had not remained with him, talking to him after her old fashion, and no further word of his love had been spoken in speech either half or wholly articulate.

  Nor had Bell spoken of what had passed to anyone else. Lily would probably have told both her mother and sister instantly; but then no such scene as that which had taken place with Bell would have been possible with Lily. In whatever way the matter might have gone with her, there would certainly have been some clear tale to tell when the interview was over. She would have known whether or no she loved the man, or could love him, and would have given him some true and intelligible answer. Bell had not done so, but had given him an answer which, if true, was not intelligible, and if intelligible was not true. And yet, when she had gone away to think over what had passed, she had been happy and satisfied, and almost triumphant. She had never yet asked herself whether she expected anything further from Dr. Crofts, nor what that something further might be—and yet she was happy!

  Lily had now become pert and saucy in her bed, taking upon herself the little airs which are allowed to a convalescent invalid as compensation for previous suffering and restraint. She pretended to much anxiety on the subject of her dinner, and declared that she would go out on such or such a day, let Dr. Crofts be as imperious as he might. “He’s an old savage, after all,” she said to her sister, one evening after he was gone, “and just as bad as the rest of them.”

  “I do not know who the rest of them are,” said Bell, “but at any rate he’s not very old.”

  “You know what I mean. He’s just as grumpy as Dr. Gruffen, and thinks everybody is to do what he tells them. Of course, you take his part.”

  “And of course you ought, seeing how good he has been.”

  “And of course I should, to anybody but you. I do like to abuse him to you.”

  “Lily, Lily!”

  “So I do. It’s so hard to knock any fire out of you, that when one does find the place where the flint lies, one can’t help hammering at it. What did he mean by saying that I shouldn’t get up on Sunday? Of course I shall get up if I like it.”

  “Not if mamma asks you not?”

  “Oh, but she won’t, unless he interferes and dictates to her. Oh, Bell, what a tyrant he would be if he were married!”

  “Would he?”

  “And how submissive you would be, if you were his wife! It’s a thousand pities that you are not in love with each other—that is, if you are not.”

  “Lily, I thought that there was a promise between us about that.”

  “Ah! but that was in other days. Things are all altered since that promise was given—all the world has been altered.” And as she said this the tone of her voice was changed, and it had become almost sad. “I feel as though I ought to be allowed to speak about anything I please.”

  “You shall, if it pleases you, my pet.”

  “You see how it is, Bell; I can never again have anything of my own to talk about.”

  “Oh, my darling, do not say that.”

  “But it is so, Bell; and why not say it? Do you think I never say it to myself in the hours when I am all alone, thinking over it—thinking, thinking, thinking. You must not—you must not grudge to let me talk of it sometimes.”

  “I will not grudge you anything—only I cannot believe that it must be so always.”

  “Ask yourself, Bell, how it would be with you. But I sometimes fancy that you measure me differently from yourself.”

  “Indeed I do, for I know how much better you are.”

  “I am not so much better as to be ever able to forget all that. I know I never shall do so. I have made up my mind about it clearly and with an absolute certainty.”

  “Lily, Lily, Lily! pray do not say so.”

  “But I do say it. And yet I have not been very mopish and melancholy; have I, Bell? I do think I deserve some little credit, and yet, I declare, you won’t allow me the least privilege in the world.”

  “What privilege would you wish me to give you?”

  “To talk about Dr. Crofts.”

  “Lily, you are a wicked, wicked tyrant.” And Bell leaned over her, and fell upon her, and kissed her, hiding her own face in the gloom of the evening. After that it came to be an accepted understanding between them that Bell was not altogether indifferent to Dr. Crofts.

  “You heard what he said, my darling,” Mrs. Dale said the next day, as the three were in the room together after Dr. Crofts was gone. Mrs. Dale was standing on one side of the bed, and Bell on the other, while Lily was scolding them both. “You can get up for an hour or two to-morrow, but he thinks you had better not go out of the room.”

  “What would be the good of that, mamma? I am so tired of looking always at the same paper. It is such a tiresome paper. It makes one count the pattern over and over again. I wonder how you ever can live here.”

  “I’ve got used to it, you see.”

  “I never can get used to that sort of thing; but go on counting, and counting, and counting. I’ll tell you what I should like; and I’m sure it would be the best thing, too.”

  “And what would you like?” said Bell.

  “Just to get up at nine o’clock to-morrow, and go to church as though nothing had happened. Then, when Dr. Crofts came in the evening, you would tell him I was down at the school.”

  “I wouldn’t quite advise that,” said Mrs. Dale.

  “It would give him such a delightful start. And when he found I didn’t die immediately, as of course I ought to do according to rule, he would be so disgusted.”

  “It would be very ungrateful, to say the least of it,” said Bell.

  “No, it wouldn’t, a bit. He needn’t come, unless he likes it. And I don’t believe he comes to see me at all. It’s all very well, mamma, your looking in that way; but I’m sure it’s true. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll pretend to be bad again, otherwise the poor man will be robbed of his only happiness.”

  “I suppose we must allow her to say what she likes till she gets well,” said Mrs. Dale, laughing. It was now nearly dark, and Mrs. Dale did not see that Bell’s hand had crept under the bedclothes, and taken hold of that of her sister. “It’s true, mamma,” continued Lily, “and I defy her to deny it. I would forgive him for keeping me in bed if he would only make her fall in love with him.”

  “She has made a bargain, mamma,” said Bell, “that she is to say whatever she likes till she gets well.”

  “I am to say whatever I like always; that was the bargain, and I mean to stand to it.”

  On the following Sunday Lily did get up, but did not leave her mother’s bedroom. There she was, seated in that half-dignified and half-luxurious state which belongs to the first getting up of an invalid, when Dr. Crofts called. There she had eaten her tiny bit of roast mutton, and had called her mother a stingy old creature, because she would not permit another morsel; and there she had drunk her half glass of port wine, pretending that it was very bad, and twice worse than the doctor’s physic; and there, Sunday though it was, she had fully enjoyed the last hour of daylight, reading that exquisite new novel which had just completed itself, amidst the jarring criticisms of the youth and age of the reading public.

  “I am quite sure she was right in accepting him, Bell,” she said, putting down the book as the light was fading, and beginning to praise the story.

  “It was a matter of course,” said Bell. “It always is right in the novels. That’s why I don’t like them. They are too sweet.”

  “That’s why I do like them, because they are so sweet. A sermon is not to tell you what you are, but what you ought to be, and a novel should tell you not what you are to get, but what you’d like to get.”
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  “If so, then, I’d go back to the old school, and have the heroine really a heroine, walking all the way up from Edinburgh to London, and falling among thieves; or else nursing a wounded hero, and describing the battle from the window. We’ve got tired of that; or else the people who write can’t do it nowadays. But if we are to have real life, let it be real.”

  “No, Bell, no,” said Lily. “Real life sometimes is so painful.” Then her sister, in a moment, was down on the floor at her feet, kissing her hand and caressing her knees, and praying that the wound might be healed.

  On that morning Lily had succeeded in inducing her sister to tell her all that had been said by Dr. Crofts. All that had been said by herself also, Bell had intended to tell; but when she came to this part of the story, her account was very lame. “I don’t think I said anything,” she said. “But silence always gives consent. He’ll know that,” Lily had rejoined. “No, he will not; my silence didn’t give any consent; I’m sure of that. And he didn’t think that it did.” “But you didn’t mean to refuse him?” “I think I did. I don’t think I knew what I meant; and it was safer, therefore, to look no, than to look yes. If I didn’t say it, I’m sure I looked it.” “But you wouldn’t refuse him now?” asked Lily. “I don’t know,” said Bell. “It seems as though I should want years to make up my mind; and he won’t ask me again.”

  Bell was still at her sister’s feet, caressing them, and praying with all her heart that that wound might be healed in due time, when Mrs. Dale came in and announced the doctor’s daily visit. “Then I’ll go,” said Bell.

  “Indeed you won’t,” said Lily. “He is coming simply to make a morning call, and nobody need run away. Now, Dr. Crofts, you need not come and stand over me with your watch, for I won’t let you touch my hand except to shake hands with me;” and then she held her hand out to him. “And all you’ll know of my tongue you’ll learn from the sound.”

  “I don’t care in the least for your tongue.”

  “I dare say not, and yet you may some of these days. I can speak out if I like it; can’t I, mamma?”